


Renascence

by mornmeril



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, Dark, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Insanity, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Illness, Obsession, Obsessive Behavior, Obsessive Love, Psychological Trauma, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Stockholm Syndrome, Unhealthy Relationships, dark!fic, mixed narrative, most disturbing thing i've ever written, not Enjolras or R, srsly when i say insane and dark i MEAN insane and dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 08:19:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mornmeril/pseuds/mornmeril
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire caves under the strain of knowing Enjolras is to die at the barricade and instead drugs him and takes him away. The spiral to insanity only continues from there.</p>
<p>
  <i>He is going to die.<br/>If I do not intervene, if I sit by and let this foolishness run its course, Enjolras will die and the world will be deprived of his light. I will be deprived of his light. It will be a loss for us all, but I am selfish, I am all the qualities of man that make the worst and I do not want to part with Enjolras. In all his fierceness, he is a gentle soul and though he conceals it well, I know his heart to be as delicate as his looks. And for all my dispassion, I love him fiercely, unconditionally…insanely. How can I stand by and watch him walk into darkness? How am I to let him be taken from me, unknowing whether I can follow?</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Renascence

**Author's Note:**

> **Please, please, please heed the warnings, ppl! This story deals with serious health issues and depicts what is anything but a healthy relationship. There are some seriously disturbing things in here and quite a bit of violence, so if you are triggered easily, then opt out of this one!**
> 
> Well, I don't really have to say anything for myself, other than that I worry for my own sanity. I have no idea how to justify this, only that the idea has been lodged in my head for quite some time and I was dying to try something different. (I vaguely remember seeing a prompt at the kinkmeme along these lines as well? If you come across it, feel free to link it there.)
> 
> This is far, far darker than my usual stuff and the experience has been frightfully enjoyable. Excuse me, now, while I hide in a corner and contemplate my own mind.
> 
> Also, I typed this out in one go today and only read through it once or twice - I know, shame one me, but it's rather taxing on the nerves and I just wanted to put it out there, so pls forgive me any mistakes and feel free to point them out to me!
> 
> P.S.: A small progress note on the next prompt fill: I know I'm terrible and taking ages, but it should be out by the end of this week. It's finished, merely in the editing phase. I promise not to get distracted again!

* * *

_He is going to die._

_If I do not intervene, if I sit by and let this foolishness run its course, Enjolras will die and the world will be deprived of his light. I will be deprived of his light. It will be a loss for us all, but I am selfish, I am all the qualities of man that make the worst and I do not want to part with Enjolras. In all his fierceness, he is a gentle soul and though he conceals it well, I know his heart to be as delicate as his looks. And for all my dispassion, I love him fiercely, unconditionally…insanely. How can I stand by and watch him walk into darkness? How am I to let him be taken from me, unknowing whether I can follow?_

_It is wrong, I know, these thoughts that have been creeping into my mind as of late. Enjolras would want no part of them, wants no part of me. But Enjolras is blinded by his ideals, blinded by his own light. He needs my protection or he will never shine again. My soul is already lost, I am already beyond redemption, who better than myself to see this done?_

_Lately, the darkness in me has been growing, ever growing, growing beyond my control and growing despite the numbness of drink. I can feel it reaching for me now, can feel greedy fingers tugging me under. Enjolras’ light is the only thing holding them at bay. If he dies, I shall die with him - that was never the question. It is what comes after which worries me. For if Enjolras dies, he will undoubtedly go where all the gods reside; but when I die, I will be sent the opposite way. We will be parted and I cannot stand the thought, cannot relinquish my hold on him - feeble as it may be - when there is a chance of holding onto him for just a few years more._

_He will hate me for this, but he will live. It will have to be enough._

***

The wait for the attack weighs heavyly on Enjolras’ shoulders and restlessness has long since seized him. Now that the barricades are standing and their banner is flying in the cool evening breeze, there is little to do but steel himself for what is to come. He disguises his pacing by exchanging a few words with each of his friends as well as some of the other citizens, but it is a futile effort to calm his mind.

Later, he will curse himself for how he unwittingly played straight into his captor’s hands by seeking out the shadows between the high walls of a dirty alley, wishing to loosen the iron control with which he held his mask in place. The pitiful glow of the nearby streetlight does little in illuminating the area, skilfully hiding the presence that only becomes known to him when he is seized from behind.

Before a surprised cry can spill forth from Enjolras’ lips, they are sealed by a sweet smelling cloth. He struggles against the hold, but it stays firm if not unkind. The pressure on the cloth increases and the sickening smell burns its way into Enjolras’ nose, making his head spin. He would have stumbled, had the strong arms not held him up.

“I’m sorry,” whispers a familiar voice, hot breath brushing his ear.

But his senses are already cloying, his limbs growing weak, and his lids heavy as lead. It is possible he makes a weak sound, though the cloth would have swallowed it even so. Darkness comes swiftly, his thoughts derailed and his ears filled with whispers begging his forgiveness.

***

_I have dreamed of holding him so many times, but it cannot compare to reality. All the sharpness associated with him lies in his voice, for everything else about him is soft. His hair, his skin, the curve of his lips when they are not pressed together tightly in disdain. I dare not touch him more than is necessary, I do not want to taint him with my undeserving hands, even as my mouth longs to seek out his brow, to bestow a kiss that speaks of care and love. For it is because of that that I do this. I wish to care for him, to keep him safe and surely, surely despite the wrongness of my approach, the sentiment in itself is not sinful? Sinful, yes, I am a sinner and my thoughts of him are often impure, but I do not wish to impart that sin onto Enjolras._

_My darkness is mine to keep, it shall not taint Enjolras’ light, I will not let it._

***

The ground beneath him is shaking and in the distance Enjolras believes he can hear the sound of hooves hitting stone. He is held, enfolded in a pair of arms and there is a warm, steady presence at his back. Enjolras struggles to open his eyes, but they do not obey him and this time the sound of distress is clear as it tumbles from his mouth.

A warm hand strokes his side, gentling him as though he is a spooked horse, and then the sweet smelling cloth returns and everything slips back into darkness.

***

_My hate is every bit as great as my love for Enjolras and I feel it both keenly as I carry him into the small cottage that is to be our home for the unforeseeable future. I lay him carefully upon the bed, my fingers barely brushing his hair as I sweep it from his face. It is with an aching heart that I slip the bounds around his hands, but I cannot risk leaving him free._

_Enjolras is strong, not as strong as myself, but strong enough. And most of all, he is ferocious. I have no doubt that he will cause considerably damage if I leave him unguarded. I cannot risk for any harm to come to him, and so I bind his wrists and fight the urge to thread by fingers through his._

_***_

Enjolras wakes to aching shoulders and an even fiercer pain in his head, his thoughts sluggish and missing their focus. His eyes are still reluctant to obey him and it takes more than one attempt to finally blink enough times to see further than the dim light blurring in front of him.

He is restrained, his hands bound behind his back, though it is not a cell he finds himself in, but a warm room and a soft bed with clean sheets. He turns his head, wincing at the sharp pain, then struggles to manoeuvre into a sitting position. Before he can twist himself into a frenzy and topple from the bed, a set of warm, gentle hands catches him and arrests his movement.

“Easy,” a voice above him murmurs, familiar. As is the green waistcoat that enters his field of vision.

Enjolras frowns and snaps his gaze up, regretting it when his vision swims anew.

“Grantaire?” it is barely a croak, but there is no mistaking the blue eyes that look back at him from an uncharacteristically solemn face.

Grantaire shifts, though does not withdraw his support, instead reaching towards the bedside table and retrieving a cup. He presses it against Enjolras’ mouth and Enjolras parts his lips to receive the cool water within on reflex. It helps his parched throat, easing some of the strain in his head. It also brings back his memory and throws the current situation into even sharper relief.

Enjolras jerks away his head and Grantaire obediently returns the cup to the nightstand, releasing him as Enjolras casts upon him a fierce glare.

“What have you done?” he demands, the words akin to a whiplash in the small room.

Grantaire looks appropriately whipped, but makes no move to release Enjolras from his bonds.

“I could not let you die,” he says, barely more than a whisper. It is not the first time he has trouble holding Enjolras’ gaze, but there is something different about him now. Something rather more manic, more…broken.

Enjolras casts a look around the room, seeking a window and finding no rooftops beyond it, merely trees framed by the greying light of dawn. The world outside is quiet, so very quiet. Paris is never this still.

“Where are we? How much time has passed?” Enjolras has a hard time stomping down the panic that is starting to rise within his chest.

Grantaire does not appear to be listening.

“I could not let you die,” he repeats, his eyes bright and his words running together in a frantic babble. “Enjolras, you would have died, I could not let you. I know you will hate me for this, more so than you already do, and I deserve it. I do. But please understand. I did it to protect you, you would have _died_. I will care for you, I will. I promise you are safe here. I would never hurt you, I could not. I-”

Enjolras feels wild, genuinely scared and so very, very angry.

“Release me!” he snaps, yells, tearing through the incessant stream of nonsense and starting his struggle anew. “Release me, _this instant_! I need to return! Our friends- How could you do this? Have you drunk away what last has remained of your mind?”

Grantaire looks frightened, his eyes wide and blood-shot, but there is a steely determination to him that Enjolras does not recognise.

“Let me go!” Enjolras cries, yanking at his bonds and biting his lip as he wrenches his shoulder and pain shoots through him.

Grantaire does not miss it and he starts forwards abruptly, his hands returning to Enjolras’ wildly twisting frame and closing around his arms with a strength Enjolras has not expected. His touch his not harsh, not painful, but it makes Enjolras’ skin crawl.

“Stop,” Grantaire says, no _pleads_. “ _Stop_ , you’re hurting yourself. Please, Enjolras. I love you. _I love you_.”

“Love?” Enjolras repeats, at once aghast and with a slightly shrill quality to his voice that he has never heard himself use before. His vision is blurry once more, though it is the haze of rage and panic this time, making his chest seize and his heart slam against his ribcage. “ _Love?_ You are insane! You have taken me from our friends, left them to face the enemy alone - making them think I have abandoned them! And you speak of love? How dare you do this to me? How dare you do this to _them_? Have you no shame? Have you no _honour_?”

Grantaire’s grip tightens, though his fingers still stop short of being painful. Enjolras hates him a little more for it.

“I have not,” he says, no room for doubt in his voice. “I have nothing, only love for you. My world begins and ends with you. I know you were unaware, but it is the truth. And I am not ready to give you up.”

Enjolras stares at him, a million thoughts tumbling over each other in his head. He has trouble forming any at all.

“I do not _belong_ to you! I am my own man, you cannot command me! Do you not see that this is wrong?”

Grantaire looks defeated, his eyes even brighter now and Enjolras can see tears in them. His hold remains strong.

“I do,” he says, for once meeting Enjolras’ gaze. “I know it is. Yet, I cannot help myself. I cannot do differently. I’m sorry.”

Sensing a sliver of chance, Enjolras changes tactics, his heart hammering in a chest so intensely he marvels at still being able to draw breath. He needs to get back. Combeferre, Courfeyrac…all of his friends are facing the fight alone. They will think he has forsaken them. He _needs_ to return to their side.

“Grantaire, _please_ ,” Enjolras constrains his voice into a low, soft register and forcefully represses his anger. It only takes for him to picture his friends, alone at the barricade without him to make his plea sound genuine. “I beg of you, let me go. You say you love me, then do this for me, _please_.”

Grantaire’s eyes finally spill over and Enjolras’ chest heaves at the sight of his tears. If possible, he hates him even more at the sight.

“ _I can’t_ ,” Grantaire all but sobs. “It is because I love you that I cannot let you go back there, _you will die_. Let me take care of you, let me make this right. I will, I promise. You can have anything you want, anything at all. I will give it to you, anything but this, Enjolras. Please do not ask it of me.”

Something in Enjolras snaps.

“ _You have no right!_ ” He trashes against Grantaire’s hold, his throat straining at the force of his shout. “You are despicable! I will never forgive you for this! I wish I had never let you stay with us, _I wish I had never known you_!” Grantaire whimpers, but Enjolras feels only vicious glee at knowing that he has caused him pain. He struggles harder, very near mindless with rage. He hardly even feels the sharp pain shooting through his body from his arms. “You disgust me! You-”

He is cut off abruptly by the now familiar feel of the sweet-smelling cloth pressing against his mouth and nose. Enjolras tries to jerk his head away, but his skull his cradled in a broad palm and held in place. He tires to stop breathing, to keep himself form inhaling, but his head spins with it and his lungs are burning and in the end it is not a choice, but his body giving in.

The darkness does not feel like relief, it feels like the path to hell itself.

***

_I cannot keep from holding him close, cannot keep my face from pressing against the top of his head as I weep. Enjolras is limp in my arms once more, forced under by my fear of him hurting himself, which undoubtedly would have happened had I not intervened._

_Enjolras’ words are still in my ears, echoing in my mind in a cacophony that is drowning out most of my own, desperate ramblings that will not cease. The pain merges with the knowledge that Enjolras’ arms do not reach back, do not hold me in return and never will. It is excruciating, it is punishment. And I deserve every second of it._

_***_

Enjolras does not know how many days pass, for all he knows it could be weeks, _months_. His sense of time is skewered and he does not have the presence of mind to ask.

Every time he surfaces, his rage does so with him and with every fierce struggle, Grantaire puts him under once more.

One incident bleeds into the next. And the next. And the one after that.

Enjolras wakes, he remembers, he starts screaming at Grantaire, the words spilling over his lips without thought, pouring forth with all the viciousness he can master and never failing in making Grantaire’s face crumble and his eyes swim with tears. His throat feels perpetually raw from the ferocity of his shouting and every muscle in his body is on fire, no matter how quickly Grantaire intervenes to keep Enjolras from injuring himself.

Grantaire does not plead with him any longer, not while his temper rages. It is reserved for the times when Enjolras is still mostly under, barely awake enough for Grantaire to force some broth past his lips and for his body to accept it on reflex. He strokes Enjolras’s hair and babbles nonsense into his ears that should not be soothing, but somehow still manage to keep Enjolras’ nerves from fraying entirely.

It never lasts, for as soon as Enjolras’ mind clears, it all comes back and his temper derails once more. Enjolras has never been known for his easy nature and had to lean early how best to control himself. It has never been as hard as now, when desperation mixes with heartache, and anger comes to envelope the whole lot and burst from him in a mindless explosion.

But even so, there comes a day when Enjolras wakes, but the shouting does not come.

The anger is still there, but it is muted and has given way to pain rather than outrage. For the first time, he feels defeated and he is tired, so very, very tired despite having done little but sleep for the past - he does not know how long. He feels raw and broken, too exhausted and in far too much pain to move. And so he remains, silent and unmoving.

It is for that reason, he thinks distantly, that it takes Grantaire a while to realise that he is awake at all. When he does, he hastens to Enjolras’ side. Enjolras wants to frown at him, wants to give him the same hateful glares as before, but he finds that he cannot. It must be a disconcerting sight, for Grantaire looks pale and shaken in the face of Enjolras’ silence.

“Enjolras?” asks Grantaire, as soft and hesitant as the fingers that gently brush tangled, golden curls from his face.

Enjolras jerks back, the first movement other than blinking his eyes since he awoke, and Grantaire snatches back his hand as though burned.

“Are you hungry?” Grantaire goes on, perched now on his knees next to the bed and eying Enjolras with ever growing concern. “I made fresh broth, would you care for some?”

Enjolras does not answer and it ratchets up Grantaire’s distress to new heights. At the beginning, Enjolras would have found some form of vindictive satisfaction in it, but this emotion, too, as deserted him; gone with all the others. He feels empty, devoid of even the last sparks of his fire.

“Please, there must be something I can do.” Grantaire’s hands are shaking where he wrings them in his lap. “Tell me what you need.”

Enjolras feels heavy, laden down with a weight that feels as though it has the entire world behind it.

“Let me go,” he says, low and hoarse, and it does not sound like himself. It does not surprise him, for he has never felt less like himself in his life.

Grantaire bites his lip, his eyes bright and filled with regret.

“I cannot, you know I can’t.”

Enjolras closes his eyes. 

“Then at least release me from the bonds. I can hardly feel my hands anymore.”

He can feel Grantaire’s stare on him, has always been able to feel it even before all this. He has forgotten what it is like not to have Grantaire’s eyes on him.

Enjolras expects him to refuse, expects him to launch into one of his pleading, babbling monologues, so when he feels him shift and warm fingers brush his own, Enjolras startles and his eyes fly open. Grantaire is swift and skilled with the bindings, and soon Enjolras’ arms are free. A sensation of thousands of tiny needles sparks beneath his skin and he winces as he tries to move them after so long.

There are soft leather bracelets around his wrists that he hadn’t known where there. They have kept his skin from chafing and Enjolras finds himself startled at the thoughtfulness of the gesture despite the fact that Grantaire has been nothing but gentle with him even through his wildest of rages.

Something in Enjolras’ chest seizes, but it does not feel like hatred, nor anger, and it leaves with him an unrest and alarm that is even worse. He struggles into an upright position, his limbs weak and barely feeling his to command. He has all but unlearned how to use them and it takes a while for him to feel as though his body is his own once more.

Grantaire is back to kneeling before him, watching him carefully, the rope he had uncoiled from Enjolras’ wrists still in his hands. When he notices Enjolras’ uneasy glance towards it, he casts it aside quickly, out of sight.

“Now, would you like something to eat?” Grantaire asks carefully. “You must be hungry.”

Enjolras lashes out at him without warning. It takes Grantaire as much by surprise as it does himself.

The attack is vicious, but his limbs are still weak and his head dizzy with hunger and the last traces of the sweet smelling drug. He manages to get in a few hits on the count of surprise, but Grantaire is quick to bear him down onto the bed, pressing him into the mattress with his own weight and trapping his arms between them. His hands are firm around Enjolras’ wrists and it takes Enjolras a moment to realise that sounds are spilling from his own mouth, low desperate things that sound almost inhuman.

Grantaire is weeping again, Enjolras can feel it in the way his body is shaking, can feel his tears falling across his face like rain. The sound is so familiar by now that Enjolras almost finds it soothing, almost tilts his head into the cloth that comes to drag him back into darkness.

As always, Grantaire’s voice, choked and interspersed with sobs, follows him under. He does not ask for forgiveness anymore, merely tells Enjolras that-

***

_I love you, I love you, please stop, please, let me care for you, I will protect you, everything will be alright._

***

When Enjolras wakes again, his hands are bound once more, though not behind his back, but at his front. The clinking sound of chains sounds as he shifts.

The bounds are gone, replaced by thin shackles, carefully locked around the soft leather around his wrists to keep the iron from biting into his skin. It is firm enough for him to be unable to twist free, but not painfully so. There is a thin chain connecting the two shackles, long enough to allow Enjolras some basic movement. A heavier chain is attached to that one, building a coiled heap on the floor and ending in an iron ring fastened to the wall next to he bed. It had not been there before.

Enjolras sits up, biting back a groan at the familiar ache in his head, and the chains clink loudly. It draws Grantaire to him, the sound having travelled through the open bedroom door and into the next room that Enjolras has yet to see.

He enters slowly and Enjolras’ eyes catch on the angry marks on his face. A vicious bruise stretches across his jaw and a deep cut mars the corner of his left eye. There are several other smaller scratches across his cheeks and throat, all matching Enjolras’ fingernails.

Enjolras feels an apology forming on his tongue, but the faint rattling of chains cuts through his thoughts and reminds him that he has nothing to be sorry for. That Grantaire deserves much harsher a treatment than this. He is not quite sure if he believes it, but he tells himself that it is true.

“What day is it?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire startles slightly at receiving the first coherent question since this whole ordeal has started, but does his best to collect himself.

“Thursday, the 23rd of June.”

Enjolras feels his heart constrict, something cold spreading inside his chest and seizing his heart. Over two weeks since they had erected the barricade, over two weeks since he has last seen his friends.

“What about the others?” Enjolras demands, hardly able to keep the strain from his voice.

Grantaire lowers his gaze to the worn, wooden floor. “I know not. I’ve had no news from Paris and I could not leave your side long enough to go back.”

“Where are we?” snaps Enjolras. “What is this place?”

Grantaire takes another hesitant step into the room, his shaking hands coming to rest against the frame of the bed.

“It is mine.”

Enjolras frowns and looks around wildly. “How-”

“I won it playing dice.”

Enjolras purses his lips. “I see.” Of course he had.

He stays silent for a few moments, thoughts chasing each other inside his head.

“I want to know what happened to our friends.”

Grantaire looks genuinely contrite. “I told you, I-”

“I care not,” snaps Enjolras. “Go to Paris and find out.”

Grantaire frowns at him. “I cannot leave you here alone.”

Enjolras rises from the bed, the chain long enough to allow him to cross the room and probably all through the next as well. He does not stray far from the bed, however, dares not to approach Grantaire. Instead, he seizes the iron ring with both hands and bestows upon it a vicious yank. It hold strong, the chains rattling loudly.

“See, I cannot escape,” says Enjolras, the words sharp with bitterness. “You have made sure of it. Leave me some food and water and go to Paris. I want to know about my friends.”

Grantaire looks doubtful still. Enjolras turns towards him with all the remaining fury he is able to master.

“You told me you would do anything I asked, or was this another lie?”

Grantaire looks stricken. “No! No, of course not. I would do anything for you!”

“Then go to Paris,” says Enjolras. “I will be here when you return.”

Grantaire goes.

***

_Unease seizes me as soon as I quit the cottage. I know not how I am to be parted from Enjolras for the first time in weeks, the anxiety of being unable to see him already clawing its way through my body._

_I mount the one horse we own and urge it into a fast gallop. My breath comes in short pants and my vision swims before me. All I can think of is to turn back and to be once again safely shut away with Enjolras beside me, even if it is with chains around his wrists. Enjolras needs protection, and who better than myself to do the job? Not that I would trust anyone else with the task, no one loves Enjolras as I do._

_I have no hope of redeeming myself, but Enjolras asked me to do this for him and so I shall. Even if every passing minute feels rather like my tiring attempts to give up drink, only a hundred times worse._

_***_

By the time the sun has set and risen three times, Enjolras has managed to leave deep indents around the iron ring in the wall. The leather beneath his shackles has lost its place and his wrists are raw and bleeding, as are his fingers; the nails broken. He has managed to demolish the nightstand and its pieces lie scattered across the floor.

The fight has long since left him again when Grantaire enters the cottage on the fourth day.

He takes one look at Enjolras and his face crumbles. He crosses the room and takes Enjolras shackled hands in his, inspecting the damage and looking as pained as though the damage had been done to his own body. Enjolras is too tired to fight him off.

“What of our friends?” demands Enjolras, his voice scratchy with both disuse and the amount of enraged screaming he had done in Grantaire’s absence.

There is a pinched look on Grantaire’s face and his lip trembles faintly. He looks as bad as Enjolras imagines himself to look and, for the first time, wonders why he has yet to see him with a bottle.

He does not release Enjolras’ hands, his grip changing to something more intimate. A touch that speaks of comfort rather than inspection.

“They are dead, Enjolras.”

Enjolras stares at him, the words hanging between them without penetrating Enjolras’ mind.

“What?”

The familiar sight of Grantaire’s tears almost feels like relief.

“The barricades did not hold, the people did not rise and the National Guard killed them all. All except Marius.”

Enjolras keeps staring, watches the well-known path of tears sliding down Grantaire’s stubbled cheeks - had he no time to shave? Or maybe not the will? He reaches up, unthinking, and catches one with his finger. It stings viciously on the torn skin of his hands.

“Enjolras?”

“The people will rise,” Enjolras hears himself say, the sound of his own voice distant as though it does not belong to him at all. “They must.”

Grantaire uses his free hand to curve around Enjolras’ jaw, his thumb rough in texture but infinitely tender as it caresses his face.

“It is over,” he says gently. “They are gone.” He squeezes Enjolras’ hand, twining their fingers together. Enjolras grips back for the fear of losing himself if he does not. “But we’re still here. You are not alone, Enjolras. I’m here and I always will be, as long as I draw breath. I will take care of you.” Grantaire raises Enjolras’ bleeding hand to his lips. Enjolras does not stop him. “I love you.”

Enjolras does not speak, for there are no words. His mind is blank and his throat too dry. He does not feel anything.

He does not protest as Grantaire leads him into the next room and merely watches on numbly as he brings in water from outside to boil. He drags out a tub and fills it. When he comes over to work on the fastenings on Enjolras’ grimy shirt, Enjolras stares at the opposite wall.

The shackles fall to the floor and Grantaire finishes undressing him, all but lifting him into the tub. The water is warm, but Enjolras hardly feels it, barely registers the sting as his abused wrists and hands are submerged.

Grantaire washes him carefully, taking particular care with his hair. When the soap has been rinsed from his body, Grantaire helps him stand and wraps him into a towel. He re-dresses him in clothes that are not his own and bandages his wounds. After that, he leads him back to bed and brushes his hair with a broad, ornate brush.

Enjolras hardly surfaces enough from his own mind to wonder where it has come from. He does not speak, does not look at Grantaire and merely keeps on staring into the distance. His whole world is reduced to _They are dead_. He thinks about his friends, about the fact that he will ever see them again. That it was him who has led them to their deaths and then failed to die with them.

When Grantaire eases him down and covers him, tucking the duvet around him and brushing the faintest of kisses against his brow, sleep comes without warning. It is a shame that he has to wake from it.

***

_I weep for my friends, but rejoice at the thought that I am the only thing left for Enjolras to depend on. Sleep does not find me and I cannot seem to sit still._

_I wish I could drink, but I refrain even as the need makes my skin crawl. I have sworn to give up the poison. I cannot be inebriated when Enjolras needs me, cannot care for him when my senses are not sharp. Enjolras is infinitely more important than drink and the rush he gives me so much stronger that I do not have need of it any longer._

_The craving will fade, it already has started to. Enjolras needs me and for once, I shall not disappoint him._

_***_

The next day, Enjolras finds a stack of drawings on a chair next to the bed. Grantaire has tidied away the broken pieces of the nightstand and the chair has taken its place.

Enjolras reaches for them without thinking, his arms still free of chains, and his heart immediately seizes in his chest.

It is their friends, penned in great detail and so artfully shaded that it is as though they will step from the page any moment. Enjolras leafs through each of the drawings again and again, until they are burned into his mind and to the inside of his eyelids.

He seeks out the darkest corner of the room and squeezes into it, curling in around himself and burying his face in his hands. The bandages stifle his wailing, his body wracked with ugly sobs that shake him to the core and make him hope that he might die from it. He weeps until his throat is raw, until there are no tears left, but the broken sounds that spill forth will not stop and Enjolras has not the energy to keep them inside.

Grantaire comes to him then, drops to his knees and crawls into his space. He touches Enjolras the way he always does, gentle and careful - reverent. Enjolras does not think as he replaces his hands with Grantaire’s shoulder, pressing into his chest, letting himself be caught in his arms. It is warm and soft and feels far too good to be questioned, and so he does not.

***

_My heart weeps with Enjolras, but I cannot bring myself to resent it for it is the first sign that he might realise that he has need of me. It gives me hope, hope that tastes bitter, but hope nonetheless._

_***_

Enjolras lets himself grieve, or at least he assumes that it is, indeed, grief that has seized him. He does not talk and lets himself be soothed by Grantaire’s mindless babbling, by the familiar whispers that wash over him as Grantaire feeds him, washes him and puts him to bed.

The lights keeps changing outside, but Enjolras pays it no attention. It is, therefore, with no recollection of how many days have passed that he feels some of the fog clearing.

He does not feel like himself and he knows he never will again, but it is closer to what he used to be and further away from the mindless creature that has been letting Grantaire handle him as though he was a doll.

Yet, Enjolras feels brittle in a way that makes him fear will not pass. There is a flame within him once more, but though it burns brightly, it does not burn the same. It does not feel like fervour, does not resemble his often carefully contained fury. It is new and foreign and feels rather more like insanity. He wonders whether his eyes hold the same manic gleam as Grantaire’s and finds that he does not want to know.

When Grantaire sits him down on the bed, Enjolras lets him as he had done these past, uncountable days. Grantaire brushes his hair with the same care as he always shows him and Enjolras allows him, though as soon as he puts down the brush, Enjolras seizes it and uses it to cast a blow to Grantaire’s face.

As expected, Grantaire reels back in shock, his lip split and blood welling from the cut. It has the opposite effect of his tears, stoking Enjolras’ fire instead of calming him. He launches himself at Grantaire, flinging them both to the floor. He lands a few blows, but for all of Grantaire’s surprise, he is quick to recover.

He seizes Enjolras, wrestling him underneath him and pinning him down. Enjolras screams at him, first in mindless frustration, then forming familiar words of abuse.

Grantaire holds him firmly, whispering against his ear and pressing kisses to his face. His lips are slick with blood and Enjolras feels at once pleased and wretched. Wants to make him bleed more and lick it off.

He ends up weeping instead, unable to contain such a wide range of differing emotions - even more so now after spending uncountable days feeling nothing at all. Grantaire weeps with him, then, and it makes Enjolras subside enough to stop screaming. He presses his face into Grantaire’s shoulder, then scratches at his face when Grantaire manoeuvres him off the floor and towards the bed.

He drags him closer, then ends up tearing a few strands of wiry, dark hair from his head before Grantaire succeeds in wrapping both the leather bands and the shackles around his wrists once more. Enjolras deflates when they snap into place, almost relieved when the choice is taken from him and he cannot go on to cause more injury.

He wants to curl into Grantaire’s arms. He wants to tear him apart.

“I hate you,” Enjolras hisses.

Grantaire kisses his face and gently brushes tangled locks from his face. He retrieves the brush and resumes his task. Enjolras curls his hands into the sheets, his fingers stained with Grantaire’s blood, and lets him.

***

_I love you._

***

Enjolras starts counting again, then stops.

Grantaire tells him the date when he asks, but Enjolras does not ask often.

The chains stay and the rattling and clinking becomes so familiar that Enjolras barely hears it anymore. Grantaire brings him books, at first volumes he picks out himself and later, when Enjolras gets tired of his book choices and makes requests of his own, he dutifully procures anything Enjolras asks him to.

Enjolras often watches him out of the corner of his eye, watches as he draws and paints; ever more frequently as the shaking of his hands lessens. There is not a bottle in sight, no alcohol stashed in any of the cabinets in the kitchen, and Enjolras would have been pleased, proud even, if it had happened under any different circumstances.

Grantaire still bathes him and, sometimes, Enjolras lets him. More often than not, he strikes Grantaire and makes him bleed. Grantaire never protests, never so much as lifts a finger against him in anger and it makes Enjolras burn all the more. He still screams at him, still makes him cry, but lately these times become less and Enjolras does not protest when Grantaire lies down at his side with a book of his own.

There is a sofa in the other room that Grantaire spends his nights on and Enjolras resents it for reasons he does not care to investigate.

“What is the date?” Enjolras asks one day, his head bedded on Grantaire’s stomach as he watches him read; his own book lies discarded at his side, ignored for the past hour or so. Grantaire’s lip is split from where Enjolras struck him last night and an old bruise is fading against his cheekbone. Enjolras thinks about tracing both with his tongue; wishing to soothe and to taste his blood.

The weather outside has grown cold and Enjolras thought he saw snowflakes the other day.

“14th of December,” Grantaire asks without hesitation. He lowers his book an regards Enjolras with his intensely blue eyes.

_Blue, the colour of insanity_ , Enjolras thinks manically and bites back an unhinged laugh.

Grantaire frowns at him and it rather looks like an expression that would be more at home on Enjolras’ face. Maybe their extended exposure to each other in such close quarters has made them acquire some of each other’s habits. Not at all unlikely, judging by the alarming flavour of Enjolras’ madness.

“Care to share your thoughts?” asks Grantaire.

Enjolras feels his lips stretch, though he cannot say how much resemblance it has to an actual smile.

“I was thinking how insanity has a colour,” says Enjolras, and it sounds almost pleasant.

Grantaire tucks a golden curl behind his ear and caresses his cheek. It strays too close to his mouth and Enjolras bites his finger. Hard.

Grantaire winces, but does not jerk away, merely moves out of range of Enjolras’ teeth and continues caressing him, Enjolras’ mark stark red against his skin. Enjolras feels pleased at the knowledge that it will bruise.

“Everything has a colour,” says Grantaire, his eyes never straying from Enjolras, tracing his features the same way his hands do. “Even people.”

Enjolras curls a little closer, shifting against him and tilting his head a little. It makes Grantaire’s fingers sink deeper into his hair and not even Enjolras knows whether he wished for taht to happen or not.

“Is that so?” says Enjolras. “What colour do I have, then?”

Grantaire smiles, eyes bright. “Red, of course.”

Enjolras frowns and he finds himself digging around his thoughts for a moment until he can drag the appropriate memory from the depth of his jumbled mind. And even so, it does not bring with it the feeling that he expected.

“Because of the revolution?”

Grantaire’s smile widens, turning slightly cooked and his gaze turns intense in that manic way that never fails to arrest Enjolras’ attention.

“No,” he says quietly, fingers whisper-soft in his hair. “Because you burn like the sun.”

***

_And you burn me, have always burnt me. From the moment I first saw you, you consumed me like a wildfire until there was nothing left of me. But I do not resent it, not at all. It was rebirth in its purest form, a phoenix going up in flames only to be reborn from the ashes._

_If you burn, I burn with you, and we shall rise together._

_***_

For the first time in months, Enjolras can hear the clink-clanking of the chains. The sound of the iron dragging across the floor like the flaying of his nerves. He is restless, practically trembling with stowed up energy, and has been pacing incessantly since the sun came up.

The snow outside has been and gone and the lack of uncharitable weather makes Enjolras long to go outside, to inhale fresh air into his lungs that does not stem from the open window alone. He crosses the room and yanks it open anyway, the chains rattling impatiently.

The breeze that wafts inside is still chilled, though it smells of spring.

Enjolras turns back around, a small shiver racing up his spine as a gust of wind hits him form behind.

“Unbind me,” he commands.

Grantaire looks up from where he sits sprawled in an old armchair. “You know I cannot.”

There is a gash above his eye and Enjolras does not recall when he last saw him without a mark on his face.

“You mean you _will not_ ,” snaps Enjolras, his temper rising.

Grantaire puts down the drawing he has been working on. 

“I _mean_ I cannot,” he persists. “If I do, you will undoubtedly do something foolish.”

Enjolras flies across the room, the chains following in his wake and tracing the same scratch marks they left there from all the times before. Grantaire rises when he sees the look on his face and Enjolras can tell from his expression that he is already anticipating a blow.

“Something foolish?” hisses Enjolras, not unlike a snake about to strike. “You have imprisoned me! Do you think you can keep me here forever?”

“I can try,” says Grantaire quietly.

Enjolras seizes him by the front of his waistcoat.

“I hate you!” he cries, but the words have been spoken so often that Enjolras has become unsure of their meaning. “I wish you would die!” The words are yelled in Grantaire’s face and have the desired effect as tears spring to his eyes. Enjolras does not mean them, but once he starts he cannot stop. It is not unlike the arguments they used to have, tucked away in the back-room of the Musain and surrounded by their friends. When Grantaire raised his ire and Enjolras burst forth with a flood of words that were harsher than intended and only ever spoken in anger. “I wish you would die and then I would be free! Free of all this, free of this place. _Free of you!_ ”

Grantaire does not speak, merely bites his lip as his eyes keep on leaking. Enjolras yanks him to the side and slams him into the closest wall. Grantaire does not fight back and his fingers, when they curl around his chained wrists, are as gentle as ever. Wetness hits the back of Enjolras’ hand and distracts him, his tirade suddenly cut short at the sight of a weeping Grantaire.

The words that had been burning on his tongue just moments before are lost and Enjolras cannot seem to form new ones. He follows the tears as they make their familiar tracks and his mind blanks. Before he realises his actions, Enjolras has leaned in close, his tongue darting out to taste a salty drop and rolling it inside his mouth as though it is a particularly fine wine only waiting to be savoured.

Grantaire freezes beneath him, even his tears ceasing, until his chest suddenly starts heaving with shallow breaths. His body is hot against Enjolras, lined up with no space left between them and Enjolras can feel him harden against his thigh. When he draws back to look at Grantaire’s face, the blue of his eyes is barely a rim around the edge of his dark, blown-up pupils. Enjolras stares into them, captivated, and it is almost like a physical pull. He resists, but barely.

When he jerks away, his body is instantly cold and when he turns away and licks his lips, they taste of salt and something very much like desire.

***

_Every time I think that there are no tears left, I weep again. And every time I feel as though the words cannot cut me after all this time, they slice me to pieces. But I do not care, I do not care. I will take whatever there is, because I want it all. Every little bit, even if it leaves me bleeding._

_***_

The idea comes after that.

Enjolras turns it over and over in his mind but even as he makes his move, he is not certain that he wants to.

It is easy, so very, very easy. Grantaire is never far and he lets Enjolras do as he pleases, as long as he does not hurt himself in the process.

There is no argument this time and Enjolras does not create one, simply curls his fingers into Grantaire’s waistcoat once more and crowds him against the wall next to the stove. His eyes are just as wide and dark, his breathing just as shallow and when Enjolras presses against him he is already hot and hard in his trousers. Enjolras does not hesitate to close the remaining distance between them, his lips unpracticed and too harsh as they capture Grantaire’s.

Grantaire makes the sound of a dying man and melts into Enjolras’ arms. Enjolras bites down hard and tastes blood, Grantaire whimpers and presses closer, opening his mouth for more. Enjolras thrusts his tongue inside without fineness and licks in deep, swallowing Grantaire’s moan and seeking to stifle his own. When Grantaire’s tongue comes to meet him, hot and wet, his thoughts fly apart and scatter.

The kiss is almost brutal, at least on Enjolras’ side, for Grantaire is barely holding onto him. Enjolras grinds him into the wall with his own body and Grantaire’s hips stutter against his own, desperate and helpless. Enjolras has never wanted anything more in his life and it scares him so profoundly that the reason for this venture separates from the intense sensation of Grantaire’s mouth open and his for the taking, suddenly standing out in stark clarity.

It is with a trembling heart and a hand that is just as unsteady, that he blindly grabs the frying pan from the stove. His mind is screaming at him to cease his actions immediately, but Enjolras cannot remember a time when he was last able to trust his mind.

He wrenches himself away and feels as though the most important part of him has split apart from the rest and stayed right there with Grantaire. Enjolras brings the pan down against the side of his head and Grantaire’s blue, blue eyes roll up in his head as he goes down.

Enjolras drops the pan and catches him, cradling him against his body as his chest seizes painfully. He runs frantic hands over him, checking for the beat of a pulse and sagging with relief as he finds it. His hands are still unsteady as he searches Grantaire’s pockets for the key to the shackles. They clank to the ground a moment later.

Grantaire is still and pale, the blood staining the side of his head all the more bright for it. He is still and he cannot weep, so Enjolras does it for him.

***

_Enjolras._

***

Paris is not like he remembers.

It is too loud, too big and it _stinks_. There are people _everywhere_ and Enjolras clutches the reigns of his horse in a hold that is desperate and feels rather more like a life-line than the connection to his mount.

His eyes dart around wildly and when someone bumps into him, it makes him startle and his skin crawl unpleasantly in a way that makes him wish to claw it off. He does not last ten minutes before he flees to a nearby alley, barely big enough to fit his horse. 

The stench is even worse here and Enjolras tugs at the collar of his shirt with frantic fingers, seeking out the familiar scent of the soap Grantaire always uses to bathe him with. The soap they both smell of.

He _misses_ Grantaire. He craves his presence, his protection. His ears are ringing with the absence of manic, nonsensical whispering and Enjolras finds himself muttering under his breath to himself, finds himself repeating words he has heard Grantaire use so many times that they are ingrained into him. He wishes there were shackles he could stick his hands into to keep them from shaking.

Enjolras presses his face against the warm neck of his horse, his lips still forming words, and he sucks in deep, panicked breaths.

Why has he come here? Why? There is nothing for him here, nothing at all.

His friends are gone, _dead_. There is no one and nowhere he could turn to, his rooms surely long emptied of his belongings and given to someone else after months of him missing. He thinks of his friends ( _dead_ ) and almost wishes that he was despairing over their absence but finds himself thinking about nothing but Grantaire.

What would he do when he woke? Would he look for Enjolras ( _please, please_ ), would he weep ( _no, not where I cannot see it, taste it_ )?

_I love you_ , Enjolras mouths, though he does not know whether he is merely repeating Grantaire’s words or whether they have sprung from himself.

_Red_ , he hears Grantaire say in his mind. _You burn like the sun._

_Burn like the sun._

_The sun._

_Burn._

_Burn._

_Burn._

Enjolras jerks up his head, the horse startling slightly at the abrupt movement and throwing his head back with a whinnying noise. Enjolras pays it no heed, instead all but yanks it from the alley and throws himself back onto its back. He digs in his heels and leads it back into the direction they have just come from.

_No_ , he thinks, the only words he knows other than Grantaire’s name. _No, no, no._

***

_A phoenix needs flames to burn, to rise again, but you are gone and I’m so cold._

_So cold._

_So cold._

_So cold._

***

The smoke is visible long before Enjolras is able to catch sight of the cottage. Horror freezes the breath in his lungs and he urges the horse on.

The branch of a tree slaps into his face, slicing his cheek, but Enjolras does not feel it. He thunders across the trampled path leading up to the house and straight through the front garden. He falls rather than dismounts and there are flames licking at the rear end of the house, the bedroom window shattered and thick, black clouds of smoke billowing outside and towards the sky. Enjolras throws open the door and there are no flames to meet him, not yet. 

_Oh thank god, thank you, thank you._

He pushes a sleeve to his mouth and nose and stumbles inside, coughing despite the precaution, his eyes immediately blurring with tears as the smoke pierces them.

He finds Grantaire in the kitchen, almost as if he has not moved from where Enjolras has left him even though the pan has been cleared away and instead the floor is littered with empty bottles. Enjolras seizes him without preamble and drags him outside. Drags him clear of the cottage and through the grass, towards the shelter of the oak tree Enjolras had so often watched swaying in the wind from the window.

That done, Enjolras dashes back and yanks up the bucket from the well, hastily filling a basin and drenching himself, spilling half of the contents as he rushes back towards Grantaire’s prone form. He upends the basin without hesitation, directly onto Grantaire’s face, and falls to his knees at his side, slapping his cheeks. Grantaire hacks out a cough and it is the sweetest sound Enjolras has ever heard.

He grabs onto Grantaire, heaving him to the side, dragging forth lessons Joly has once imparted on him and frantically sifting through the information to find anything useful among it. Despite the sharp smell of smoke, Grantaire reeks of alcohol and Enjolras frets at the amount of empty bottles left behind in the cottage. Had he drunk them all? Surely he has poisoned himself with such an amount, especially after having not imbibed a drop in all these months?

At a loss of what else to do, Enjolras shoves two fingers past Grantaire’s lips and feels them hit the back of his throat. Grantaire starts retching instantly and Enjolras curls around him as he claws at the grass and empties his stomach in heaving bursts. There is blood, but not a lot, and Enjolras tells himself it must be the inside of his throat having torn open under the strain. Grantaire wheezes and Enjolras hold him tighter, pressing against his stomach harshly and sending him heaving once more. 

When it is finally over, Grantaire is white as a sheet and the ground around them is soiled with bile. Enjolras cares not at all, simply holding onto him and rocking them both, at first unaware he was doing it at all and later unable to stop the movement. Grantaire’s eyes have opened a few times, barely a sliver of blue before falling shut once more, but Enjolras sees it as a good sign.

The sky above them is pitch-black by the time Grantaire speaks for the first time.

“Enjolras,” he rasps, barely able to force a sound from his abused throat.

“Shh, don’t talk,” orders Enjolras, holding him a little tighter.

“You came back,” says Grantaire, faint even while his fingers find Enjolras’ and grip tightly.

“I did,” murmurs Enjolras. “And I am not leaving again. Rest now.”

Grantaire turns deeper into his embrace, for once drained of his strength. It is Enjolras that needs to care for him now, Enjolras that needs to protect him.

“I love you,” Grantaire whispers.

Enjolras presses his lips to his brow.

“I love you,” he repeats back. Though this time, he means it.

*** ***

They find another cottage in a different part of France, further away from Paris than the last.

There is no iron ring in the wall and no chains to hold Enjolras there. He stays anyway.

Sometimes, when he feels as though his skin is crawling with something he cannot name, when his hands are shaking and he does not know what else to do, Enjolras will push his wrists into Grantaire’s hands and Grantaire will encircle them with his fingers, tight and secure. Sometimes he presses them into the wall, or against the bed and Enjolras will writhe and pant beneath his touch, sometimes he merely keeps hold of them until the shaking stops.

Grantaire draws him another set of pictures, just as loving as the first. Enjolras accepts them, locks them into a drawer and never looks as them again.

There are times when he wakes up screaming, times when he attacks Grantaire viciously and scratches his face and makes him bleed just as he has done before. Grantaire takes it all the same and does not protest.

There are words he does not think about anymore, words he has scratched form his mind.

One day, after Enjolras had woken up with a scream still lodged in his throat and sweat making his curls cling to his skin, he had scrambled from the bed and frantically penned them on a piece of paper. Words like _equality_ or _revolution_ words like _barricade, citizens, Rousseau_ and _friends_. The list was long, the words cramped and the ink smudged from his sweating fingers. 

That done, he had pushed one of his wrists into Grantaire’s hand and had used the other to snatch up the paper and carry it outside. Grantaire had followed, his fingers warm and steady on his wrist, and watched him as Enjolras had set them aflame in the back-yard near the well until there was nothing left but black, flaky pieces of ash, carried off by the wind.

Insanity was still blue and when Enjolras looked at himself in the mirror, it stared back at him from his own eyes as well as Grantaire’s.

Enjolras was still red.

Together, they kept on burning, each day like a rebirth and the past long forgotten in a heap of ashes.


End file.
